BONNIE 


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A  Series  of  twelve  books  for  young 
folks  by  some  of  the  best  authors  of  the 
day,  as  evidenced  by  the  list  following. 
J2mo,  cloth  decorated,  each  .  .25 

The  Set  of  twelve,  boxed    .          .        3.00 

Agatha's  Unknown  Way  .  "Pansy" 
J.  Cole  .  .  .  Emma  Gellibrand 
Miss  Toosey's  Mission 

'By  author  of  "Laddie" 
Eric's  Good  News 

Author  of  "Probable  Sons" 
How  the  Children  Raised  the  Wind 

Edna  Lyall 

Jessica's  Mother  .  .  Hesba  Stretton 
My  Little  Boy  Blue,  Rosa  Nouchette  Carey 
Swan  Creek  Blizzard  and  Breaking  the 

Record     .        .        .    Ralph  Connor 
For  Christ  and  the  Church 

Charles  M.  Shelden 

Bonnie  Jean        .        .        Annie  S.  Swan 

Laddie     .        .        .         l?y  the  author  of 

"JW/ss  Toosey's  Mission" 

Alone  in  London    .      Mrs.  0.  F.  Walton 

FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 

Publishers 


"The  Bonnie  Jean" 


BY 

ANNIE  S.  SWAN 


(Mrs.  Burnett  Smith) 
AUTHOR  OF  "ALDERSYDE,"  "THE  LOST  IDEAL,"  "QATKS  OF  EDBN," 

ETC.,   ETC. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  LILIAN  KUSSRLL. 


CHICAGO      NEW  YORK      TORONTO 

FLEMING   H.  REVELL   COMPANY 

LONDON         EDINBURGH 


"THE  BONNIE  JHAN"  is  REPRINTED  IN  THIS  VOLUME  BY  ARRANGEMENT 
WITH  THE  BRITISH  PUBLISHERS 


"THE  BONNIE  JEAN." 


CHAPTER  I. 

"MOTHER,  d  'ye  think  'The  Bonnie  Jean'  '11  be  in 
the  nicht  after  I  gang  to  my  bed?"  asked  little  Davie 
Rintoul,  looking  up  from  his  lesson-book  one  grey 
September  evening,  just  at  the  twilight  hour. 

"Hoo  should  I  ken,  Davie?"  his  mother  asked, 
somewhat  querulously,  for  she  had  been  vainly  en- 
deavouring for  the  last  half-hour  to  rock  Davie 's  baby 
sister  to  sleep. 

The  child  had  been  very  irritable  and  fractious  all 
day,  and  poor  Mrs.  Rintoul's  temper  had  been  sorely 
tried.  She  was  not  a  strong  woman,  as  was  evidenced 
by  her  pale  thin  face  and  fragile-looking  form.  She 
was  much  overworked,  for  she  had  five  little  ones,  of 
whom  Davie,  aged  ten,  was  the  eldest,  and  had  her 
housework  to  attend  to,  and  her  share  of  net-mending 
and  baiting  of  the  lines  to  look  after.  All  the  neigh- 
bours pitied  poor  Jean  Rintoul,  and  said  it  was  a 
shame  that  her  husband,  who  might  have  been  inde- 
pendent almost  if  he  liked,  for  he  was  one  of  the  most 
skilful  and  clever  seamen  in  Cosy  Cove,  should  spend 
the  best  half  of  his  earnings  at  the  "Sailors'  Friend," 
as  the  popular  tavern  facing  the  little  harbour  was 


8  "THE  BONNIE  JEAN." 

very  inappropriately  named,  while  his  poor  delicate 
wife  had  so  much  to  do  and  so  little  to  do  with.  It 
was  a  poorly-furnished  little  place,  and  Jean  Rintoul 
felt  the  contrast  between  her  own  and  her  neighbours' 
houses  very  sorely,  for  she  was  just  as  fond  of  a  nice 
house  as  any  of  them.  Besides,  she  had  been  brought 
up  in  a  very  respectable  way,  for  her  father,  James 
Forsyth,  was  the  owner  of  two  boats,  and  his  comfort- 
able two-storey  house  was  his  own  also.  Bonnie  Jean 
Forsyth,  as  she  had  been  called  in  Cosy  Cove,  had 
married  wild  Dave  Rintoul  against  every  wish  and  de- 
sire of  her  parents  and  friends ;  so  she  had  left  her 
early  home  without  a  blessing,  and  she  had  been  bit- 
terly punished.  Her  father,  stern  and  immovable  in 
his  righteous  wrath  against  his  wayward  girl,  would 
not  extend  a  helping  hand  to  her  even  in  her  hour  of 
need.  But  so  long  as  the  kind,  big-hearted  mother 
dwelt  in  the  two-storey  house,  many  a  basket  of  pro- 
visions, ay,  and  many  an  article  of  clothing,  and  many 
a  shilling,  too,  found  their  way  to  the  cottage  by  the 
shore.  Jean  Rintoul  never  really  knew  the  misery  of 
being  married  to  a  dissipated,  shiftless,  idle  man 
until  her  mother  died. 

A  slight  cloud  touched  for  a  moment  the  lad's 
brow  at  his  mother's  fretful  answer  to  his  question. 
"Patie  Scott's  boat  an'  Sandy  Graeme's  is  in  tae, 
mother,  an'  they  were  at  Sunderland  tae,"  said  he 
somewhat  meekly,  and  went  on  reading  his  lesson. 

"Pit  doon  yer  book,  Davie,  and  tak  the  bairn  till  I 
rin  doon  tae  the  harbour  and  see,"  she  said,  and 
Davie,  nothing  loth,  took  his  little  sister  in  his  arms 
at  once. 


"THE  BONNIE  JEAN."  9 

Mrs.  Rintoul  put  a  shawl  round  her  head  and  ran 
along  the  doors,  which  were  deserted,  all  the  inmates 
having  gone  down  to  the  harbour  to  watch  the  boats 
come  in.  It  was  a  dull,  cold  night,  and  the  green- 
grey  sea  washed  sullenly  about  the  rocky  entrance  to 
the  little  harbour,  as  if  it  were  meditating  a  great 
break-out  before  many  hours  were  over.  It  was  a 
stirring  scene  down  at  the  pier,  where  there  were  now 
anchored  about  half-a-dozen  boats. 

"Is  'The  Bonnie  Jean'  in,  Kate?"  queried  Mrs. 
Rintoul,  touching  a  neighbour's  arm. 

"No  yet,  but  she's  comin',''  was  the  answer. 
"It 's  a  puir  drave  the  year,  Jean  Rintoul.  Pate's 
only  gotten  aicht-an' -twenty  barrels,  and  he  's  been 
awa  near  three  weeks." 

"Drave  or  nae  drave  mak  's  sma'  odds  tae  me," 
answered  Jean  Rintoul  a  little  bitterly,  and  turning 
about  again  went  away  back  to  prepare  some  supper 
for  her  husband. 

"The  Bonnie  Jean"  was  James  Forsyth's  boat,  in 
which  he  employed  his  son-in-law  as  a  common  fisher- 
man. 

It  was  only  for  his  daughter's  sake  that  James  For- 
syth  put  up  with  Rintoul;  it  was  the  only  way  in 
which  he  would  allow  himself  to  help  her. 

When  Mrs.  Rintoul  got  back  to  the  house  she 
found  Davie  nursing  the  baby  on  a  stool  near  the  fire, 
and  it  was  pleasant  to  see  how  quiet  and  good  she 
was  with  him. 

"Mother,  I  'm  lettin'  Katie  see  my  pledge-card, 
and  she  thinks  it  awfu'  bonnie.  Just  see  how  she 
looks  at  it." 


10  «  THE  BONNIE  JEAN." 

Mrs.  Rintoul  paused  and  looked  over  her  boy's 
shoulder  with  some  interest. 

"Whaur  did  ye  get  it,  Davie?" 

"At  the  temperance  meetin'  last  nicht.  The 
maister  gied  me't,  an'  see  I  wrote  my  name  mysel'  on 
it,"  said  Davie  proudly,  pointing  to  the  name  traced 
in  rather  tipsy  capitals  on  the  blank  line  left  at  the 
foot  of  the  pretty  illuminated  and  coloured  pledge- 
card. 

"But  what  is  't  for?" 

"Read  it,  mother.  See,  I  've  promised  never  to 
drink  ony  drink  as  long  as  I  live,  nor  to  gie  't  to  ony 
ither  body,  an'  I  never  will." 

"Stop  or  ye're  a  wee  aulder,  Davie,  ye  '11  like  yer 
gless  in  the  'Friend'  as  weel's  ony  ither,"  was  his 
mother's  rather  bitter  reply. 

"Nae  fear  o'  me,  mother;  ye  ken  if  I  've  promised 
an'  written  down  my  name,  I  daurna,"  said  Davie 
earnestly. 

"Ye  '11  see.  Weel,  awa  to  yer  bed,  see,  afore  yer 
faither  comes  in.  He  likes  a  quiet  hoose.  Katie  's 
near  sleepin'  tae,  see.  Off  ye  go,"  said  his  mother, 
and  lifting  Katie  from  his  arms  laid  her  softly  down 
in  her  cradle,  while  Davie  stole  away  to  the  ben-end, 
and  crept  in  beside  Robbie  and  Jamie  and  wee  Nellie, 
and  was  soon  fast  asleep. 


CHAPTER  II. 

ABOUT  an  hour  later  a  heavy  step  sounded  outsidef 
and  the  door  of  the  cottage  opened  to  admit  David 
Rintoul.  He  was  a  big,  broad-shouldered,  powerful- 
looking  fellow,  with  a  bushy,  brown  beard,  and  dark 
eyes  which  looked  rather  forbiddingly  out  below 
strongly-marked  eyebrows.  It  was  not  a  very  cheer- 
ful or  inviting-looking  picture  his  home  presented 
when  he  set  foot  in  it  that  night.  The  kitchen  was 
meagrely  furnished,  and  it  was  not  so  clean  as  it  might 
have  been;  the  fire  struggled  to  blaze  above  the  ash- 
choked  ribs;  and  a  wretched  tallow  candle  flickered 
on  the  dusty  mantel,  its  feeble  light  only  serving^ta 
show  the  cheerlessness  of  the  place.  There  was  a 
cracked  cup  on  the  bare  table,  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  a 
piece  of  unwholesome-looking  butter  not  yet  out  of 
the  wrapper  in  which  it  had  come  from  the  shop.  At 
her  husband's  entrance  Mrs.  Rintoul  looked  round 
from  the  fire,  where  she  was  frying  a  herring  for  his 
supper,  and  without  a  smile  said  listlessly — 

"Ye  've  gotten  hame  again." 

"Ay;  hae  ye  naething  but  a  herrin*  for  a  man's 
supper  efter  he  's  been  awa  a  fortnicht?"  he  said  sul- 
lenly. 

"It 's  ower  guid  for  ye,  Davie  Rintoul,  an'  ye 
wadna  hae  gotten  that  had  I  no  borrowed  it,"  said  his 

ii 


12  "THE  BONNIE   JEAN." 

wife  angrily.     "Ye  ken  hoo  muckle  ye  left  when  ye 
gaed  awa. " 

David  Rintoul  made  no  reply,  but  dragged  in  a 
chair  with  a  great  noise,  which  awakened  wee  Katie 
in  her  cradle,  and  caused  her  to  set  up  a  dismal  wail. 
The  sound  brought  an  additional  frown  on  her  father's 
face. 

"Here,  gie  's  my  tea  an'  let 's  oot  o'  this,  Jean," 
he  said  roughly,  and  his  wife  obeyed  in  silence,  and 
then  lifted  the  wailing  baby,  and  sat  down  at  the  fire 
with  her  on  her  knee. 

"The  bairn  's  been  ill  sin  ye  gaed  awa,  Davie," 
she  said  presently. 

"What 's  been  the  maitter?" 

"Want  o'  meat.  I  got  naething  but  a  drap  weak 
tea  an  a  bit  dry  breid,  so  there  was  naething  for  her. 
Look  at  her;  her  bits  o'  airms  'r  awa  tae  skin  and 
bane." 

But  David  Rintoul  picked  away  at  his  herring,  with- 
out looking  up.  Probably  he  knew  very  well  the  little 
wasted  arm  was  not  a  pleasant  sight. 

"If  that  hard  auld  faither  o'  yours  wad  rise  my  pay 
there  wad  be  mair  roughness  gaun,"  he  said  doggedly. 

"Ye  get  as  muckle  's  ony  o'  them;  besides,  what 
wad  be  the  use;  it  wad  gaun  wi'  the  rest  for  drink, 
Davie,"  answered  his  wife  quietly. 

"Ye  micht  hae  been  oot  workin'  at  the  hairst,"  he 
•said  presently.  "Mony  a  ane  as  sair  tied  as  you 
gangs  oot." 

His  wife  raised  her  head,  and  looked  at  him  full  in 
the  face.  He  had  not  many  fine  feelings,  but  the 
contempt  expressed  in  the  poor  worn  eyes  of  the 


"THE  BONNIE  JEAN."  13 

woman  before  him  nettled  him  not  a  little.  He 
gulped  down  the  remainder  of  his  tea,  pushed  back 
his  chair,  and  rose. 

"Ye'll  need  to  gie  's  some  money,  Davie,"  she 
said  then,  knowing  very  well  that  if  she  waited  till 
he  returned  her  chance  of  receiving  any  was  gone. 
He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  drew  out  half-a-sover- 
eign  and  tossed  it  on  the  table. 

"That  '11  surely  dae  ye,"  he  said  roughly.  "Dinna 
bide  up.  I  'm  gaun  awa  tae  Dan'mooth,  an*  I  '11  no 
be  hame  till  late." 

Mrs.  Rintoul  made  no  reply,  and  did  not  offer  to 
touch  the  coin  glittering  on  the  table.  Her  husband 
lit  his  pipe,  put  on  his  hat,  and  strode  out. 

Jean  Rintoul  sat  long  over  the  miserable  fire,  with 
an  expression  of  hopeless  misery  on  her  face.  Two 
burning  tears  forced  themselves  from  her  eyes,  and, 
stealing  down  her  cheeks,  fell  upon  the  baby's  white 
face,  waking  her  from  her  troubled  sleep.  Again  the 
feeble  wail  echoed  through  the  stillness,  and  she, 
tired  in  body  and  mind,  laid  the  little  one  down  in  her 
cradle  again,  while  she  put  a  piece  of  coal  on  the  fire 
to  keep  it  in  all  night,  and  hastily  made  herself  ready 
for  bed.  Some  hours  later  the  sound  of  ribald  sing- 
ing broke  the  stillness  of  the  early  Sabbath  morning. 
It  was  David  Rintoul  and  his  boon  companions  re- 
turning from  Dangermouth.  About  two  o'clock  he 
stumbled  into  the  house,  and  fell  down  on  the  rag  mat 
in  front  of  the  fire.  His  wife  did  not  disturb  him, 
and  he  lay  there  sleeping  heavily  till  the  morning. 
When  his  wife  began  to  stir  about  the  house  he 
dragged  himself  up  from  the  floor  and  lay  down  on 


14  "THE  BONNIE  JEAN." 

the  top  of  the  bed,  where  he  slept  till  noon.  When 
he  awoke,  the  only  occupant  of  the  house  was  Davie, 
sitting  on  a  little  stool  learnhig  his  verses  for  the  Sab- 
bath-school, which  the  schoolmaster  superintended  in 
the  school  every  Sabbath  afternoon. 

It  was  one  of  these  peaceful,  pleasant  days  we  often 
have  in  September,  and  poor  Mrs.  Rintoul,  glad  to 
escape  from  her  dingy  house,  had  taken  the  younger 
ones  out  for  a  stroll  along  the  braes.  She  was  begin- 
ning to  be  very  anxious  about  wee  Katie,  and  hoped 
the  fresh  air  would  bring  a  little  colour  into  her  white 
face. 

"Whaur's  yer  mither,  Davie?"  queried  Davie  Rin- 
toul the  elder,  raising  himself  up  on  his  elbow. 

"Awa  oot  wi'  the  bairns,  but  yer  breakfast  's  a' 
ready,  faither;  and  she  said  I  was  to  poor  oot  yer  tea 
for  ye,"  said  Davie  eagerly,  and  springing  up  he 
began  to  busy  himself  about  the  scantily-spread  table. 
His  father  rose  and  shook  himself  like  a  dog  just  out 
of  water,  made  a  few  grumbling  remarks,  and  then  sat 
down  without  any  appetite  to  his  untempting  meal  of 
tea  and  bread  and  butter.  When  he  finished  he 
lighted  his  pipe  and  stretched  out  his  feet  on  the  fen- 
der, and  Davie  pushed  away  b'.s  stool  a  little  to  let  his 
father  get  all  the  fireplace,  and  studiously  continued 
his  lessons. 

"What  are  ye  daein',  Davie?"  asked  his  father. 

"Lairnin'  my  psalm,  faither,"  answered  Davie; 
then  he  turned  back  the  leaves  of  the  big  Bible  to  the 
beginning  where  lay  his  precious  pledge-card. 

"What  's  that?"  asked  his  father,  the  bright  col- 
ours catching  his  eye. 


"THE  BONNIE  JEAN."  15 

"It's  my  pledge,  faither,"  said  Davie  proudly, 
but  rather  timidly  too,  for  he  knew  his  father's  failing 
very  well,  and  feared  he  might  not  approve  of  the 
step  he  had  taken  at  the  Band  of  Hope  meeting  on 
Wednesday  night. 

"Let's  see't." 

Very  reluctantly  Davie  handed  over  the  beloved 
card  into  his  father's  careless  fingers. 

"Ay,  an'  whaur  did  ye  get  that?"  asked  Davie 
Rintoul. 

"Frae  the  maister  at  the  Band  o'  Hope  on  Wednes- 
day nicht,  faither,"  said  Davie,  and  stretched  out  his 
hand  pleading  for  his  treasure,  for  he  did  not  like  the 
expression  on  his  father's  face.  Then  a  cry  of  pain 
escaped  his  lips,  for  his  father  very  deliberately 
crushed  up  the  dainty  thing  in  his  hand  and  tossed  it 
into  the  very  middle  of  a  bright  flame  in  the  fire, 
which  consumed  it  in  a  moment. 

"Tell  the  maister  tae  mind  his  ain  business,  an' 
no  be  settin'  up  bairns  tae  think  theirsel's  better  nor 
their  faithers.  He  's  paid  tae  teach  the  skule,  tell 
him,  an'  if  he  disna  stick  tae'd,  it  '11  be  the  waur'for 
him.  An'  if  I  hear  o'  you  gaun  tae  ony  of  his 
meetin's  (I  will  not  defile  my  pages  with  the  profane 
adjective  he  used),  I  '11  gie  ye  a  sair  skin;  mind  what 
I  have  said." 

Davie  rose  and  ran  out  of  the  house.  He  was  a 
quick-tempered  boy,  and  there  were  wrong  and  pas- 
sionate words  on  his  lips  burning  for  utterance.  He 
ran  away  along  the  braes  near  to  the  lighthouse  on 
wild  Cromar's  Head,  and  then  throwing  himself  on  the 
daisied  turf  burst  into  a  passion  of  bitter  weeping. 


l6  "TffB  BONNIE  JEAN." 

"Hulloa,  Davie,  what's  the  maitter  wi'  ye,  bairn?" 
queried  a  cheerful,  hearty  voice  which  Davie  recog- 
nised at  once  as  that  of  his  grandfather,  the  s'-  -r 
of  "The  Bonnie  Jean."  He  sat  up,  rubbed  hi?  -  ,t 
eyes  with  his  black  knuckles,  thereby  making  some 
very  peculiar-looking  daubs  on  his  face,  and  finally 
picked  himself  up  and  stood  rather  shame-facedly  be- 
fore his  grandfather.  After  all,  it  was  rather  foolish 
of  him  to  cry,  as  if  he  had  been  a  baby  or  a  girl,  but 
then  he  had  been  so  proud  of  his  pledge-card. 

"Ye 've  no  telt  me  what's  the  matter  yet, "  said 
the  skipper,  looking  rather  compassionately  at  the 
poorly-clad  little  urchin  before  him.  His  grand-chil- 
dren did  not  do  him  much  credit  in  Cosy  Cove,  for 
they  were  the  poorest-clad  and  the  "silliest"  looking 
bairns  in  the  village.  But  it  was  no  fault  of  theirs, 
poor  things;  they  could  not  help  their  existence,  and 
they  were  too  young  yet  to  help  or  better  themselves. 

"I  got  a  pledge-caird  frae  the  maister,  and  faither 
threw 't  in  the  fire,  grandfaither;  that's  a',"  said 
Davie,  and  stooping  picked  up  a  stone  and  shied  it  at 
a  passing  sea-bird  which  was  filling  the  air  with  its 
shrill  cries. 

"A  pledge-caird!"  said  James  Forsyth  rather 
grimly.  "I  daursay  if  the  word  'abstain'  was  prentit 
on  't  it  wad  be  enough  to  raise  yer  faither's  daunder. 
So  ye  've  turned  teetotal,  Davie?" 

"Ay,  grandfaither,  an'  when  I  'm  a  man  I  '11  be 
mair  teetotal  than  ever,"  said  Davie  manfully. 

"Ay;  what  way  that?"  asked  the  skipper,  out  of 
curiosity. 

"Because  when  folk  drinks  whusky,  grandfaither, 


"THE  BONNIE   JEAN."  17 

they  never  hae  a  guid  hoose,  nor  claes,  nor  meat  like 
ither  folk,"  said  Davie  mournfully. 

An    expression   of  sadness    crossed    the    skipper's 
i    .  _j  and  he  let  his  rough  hand  fall  kindly  on  the  lad's 


"Stick  tae  that  like  a  man,  Davie.  If  the  mais- 
ter  's  lairnt  ye  that,  it  's  the  best  lesson  ye  ever  got  in 
the  skule.  " 

"When  's  'The  Bonnie  Jean'  gaun  oot  again, 
grandfaither?"  queried  Davie,  not  seeming  to  heed 
the  old  man's  last  speech,  and  standing  with  his  eyes 
fixed  lovingly  on  the  trim  little  craft  anchored  just  at 
the  harbour  mouth. 

"On  Tuesday  likely.  Wad  ye  like  to  be  a  fisher- 
man, Davie?" 

"Wad  I  no?"  Davie's  eyes  sparkled  as  he  spoke. 
"Grandfaither,  hoo  wee  was  the  wee-est  laddie  ye 
ever  took  awa'  to  the  fishin'  in  'The  Bonnie  Jean'?" 

"Yer  uncle  Jock.  He  gaed  when  he  was  twel'  an' 
sailed  fower  year  in  'The  Jean,'  an'  syne  was  drooned 
at  Yarmouth.  A  brave  wee  chappie  he  was  tae,  puir 
Jock!"  said  the  old  man,  his  eyes  growing  dim  with  a 
long-gone  but  still  unforgotten  sorrow. 

"I  'm  ten,  grandfaither,  but  I  'm  big;  maybe 
ye  '11  tak'  me  when  I  'm  eleeven,"  said  Davie  wistfully. 

"I  '11  dae  that,  laddie,  an'  see  here,  Davie  Rintoul, 
if  ye  stick  tae  yer  pledge  like  a  man,  'The  Bonnie 
Jean,'  or  anither  boat  as  bonnie,  '11  be  yours  when  I  'm 
dune  wi  't.  " 

"Oh,  grandfaither!" 

Pen  fails  me  to  express  all  that  Davie's  breathless 
exclamation  implied. 


l8  "THE  BONNIE  JEAN." 

"That  's  tae  say  if  ye  stick  tae  the  sea,  an'  mak  a 
guid  sailor;  mind  what  I  've  said,  Davie.  I  'm  a  man 
o*  my  word,  an'  yer  grandmither  made  a  wark  wi* 
ye,"  he  added  softly;  and,  though  Davie  did  not 
guess  it,  that  reason  weighed  more  than  anything  else 
with  the  skipper  of  "The  Bonnie  Jean."  "An*  if 
ye  're  a  guid  laddie,  an'  keep  on  growin',"  added  the 
old  man,  "I  '11  tak'  ye  aboard  'The  Jean'  in  the 
spring. ' ' 

I  cannot  quite  tell  you  what  that  promise  of  his 
grandfather  meant  to  Davie.  From  that  day  one 
thought  was  'with  him  night  and  day,  filling  his  mind 
during  waking  hours,  and  haunting  him  pleasantly  in 
the  land  of  dreams.  It  was  that  when  the  spring 
came,  he  was  to  go  to  sea  with  his  grandfather.  Also 
three  words  were  engraved  on  his  heart  in  letters  of 
gold.  They  were — "THE  BONNIE  JEAN." 


CHAPTER  III. 

IN  the  first  week  of  October  the  fleet  from  Cosy  Cove 
sailed  away  to  the  fishing  grounds  off  the  Irish  coast, 
and  for  a  few  weeks  there  was  very  little  stir  in  the 
village.  There  were  very  few  men  folk  about,  and, 
as  the  school  was  taken  up  again  after  the  summer 
holidays,  in  the  daytime  there  was  hardly  a  body  to 
be  seen  about  the  doors.  The  weather  grew  very 
cold  and  stormy,  and,  as  a  natural  consequence,  there 
were  many  anxious  hearts  in  Cosy  Cove.  When  the 
wintry  weather  swept  in  Jean  Rintoul  was  never  seen 
outside  of  her  door,  and  her  children  ran  about  more 
neglected  and  miserable-looking  than  ever.  Wee 
Katie  was  very,  very  poorly  now,  and  the  parish  doc- 
tor said  her  only  chance  of  life  was  in  plenty  of  good, 
nourishing  food,  and  warm,  comfortable  clothing. 
These,  of  course,  the  poor  mother  had  not  the  where- 
withal to  procure,  and  she  was  too  proud  to  ask  char- 
ity. Had  her  mother  been  alive  it  would  have  been 
different,  for  we  are  never  too  proud  to  ask  mother- 
help;  but  now  there  was  nothing  for  David  Rintoul's 
wife  up  at  the  two-storey  house;  for  a  grim,  close- 
fisted  maiden  aunt  kept  the  skipper's  house,  and  there 
was  no  use  expecting  anything  from  her.  She  had, 
indeed,  never  spoken  to  her  niece  since  her  marriage. 
All  the  respectable  connections  of  the  Forsyths  had 

19 


20  "THE  BONNIE   JEAN." 

been  sore  disgraced  with  bonnie  Jean's  rash  and  fool- 
ish leap  into  the  boat  of  matrimony,  and  now  they 
allowed  her  to  drift  on  the  rough  waters,  comforting 
themselves  with  the  thought  that  she  had  brought  it 
on  herself;  and  that  as  she  had  made  her  bed  she 
must  just  lie  on  it  and  not  look  to  others  to  smooth  it 
for  her.  In  her  sorrow  and  poverty  Jean  Rintoul 
grew  very  bitter;  and  so  miserable  a  home  was  the 
little  cottage  by  the  sea  that  even  the  thought  of  the 
spring,  and  the  magic  words  "Bonnie  Jean,"  failed 
at  times  to  cheer  up  poor  wee  Davie.  His  heart  was 
very  sore  about  his  mother  and  poor  Katie,  of  whom 
he  was  very  fond.  The  little  thing  loved  him,  too, 
and  would  lie  contented  in  his  arms  many  a  time  when 
she  was  grumbling  and  fretful  elsewhere.  Davie  had 
got  another  pledge-card  from  the  master,  but  he  had 
hid  it  away  under  the  mattress  of  his  bed,  and  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  that  when  "The  Bonnie  Jean"  came 
in  again  he  would  give  the  precious  card  into  his 
grandfather's  keeping,  in  case  his  father  might  lay 
hands  on  it  again  and  destroy  it. 

On  the  last  Wednesday  in  October  two  boats  came 
sailing  into  the  bay  early  in  the  afternoon.  They 
were  gladly  welcomed,  more  especially  as  they  re- 
ported all  well,  and  that  the  others  were  following  up 
behind.  They  had  had  a  good  take,  and  the  men 
were  in  the  best  of  spirits.  On  his  way  home  from 
school,  Davie  Rintoul  saw  the  two  boats  come  in,  and 
flew  down  to  the  pier  to  see  whether  one  was  "The 
Bonnie  Jean."  Disappointed  that  she  had  not  yet 
come  in,  he  took  himself  away  home.  He  found 
nothing  but  misery  there.  The  fire  was  nearly  out, 


"THE  BONNIE   JEAN."  21 

and  his  mother  sat  on  the  front  of  the  bed  with  wee 
Katie  in  her  arms.  Oh!  why  did  his  little  sister  look 
like  that?  Why  were  the  poor  wee  lips  so  pinched  and 
blue,  the  eyes  staring  so  fixedly,  yet  without  meaning 
in  their  depths? 

"Mither!  mither!  what  's  the  matter  wi'  Katie?" 
he  cried  in  agony,  but  his  mother  never  spoke.  Then 
Davie  ran  out  of  the  house,  and  as  fast  as  his  legs 
could  carry  him  away  along  to  the  pretty  house  beside 
the  school.  In  such  an  extremity  who  could  help  him 
and  his  mother  so  well  as  his  best  friend,  the  school- 
master? That  gentleman  was  at  tea  with  his 
wife  when  Davie  ran  past  the  parlour  window  and 
knocked  at  the  door.  He  rose  himself  and  went  to 
open  it. 

"Oh,  pleassir,  will  ye  come  along  tae  oor  hoose?  I 
think  wee  Katie's  deid,  an'  mither  winna  speak,"  said 
Davie  breathlessly,  and  with  a  pitiful  shake  in  his 
voice.  Hearing  that,  the  schoolmaster's  wife  came 
out  to  the  door  too. 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  go,  Mary,"  said  Mr. 
Dunlop.  "In  the  case  of  a  sick  baby  you  could  do 
more  good  than  I." 

Mrs.  Dunlop  nodded,  and  went  at  once  for  her 
bonnet,  and  in  a  few  minutes  she  was  walking  swiftly 
by  Davie's  side  away  along  to  the  cottage  on  the 
shore.  Mary  Dunlop  had  no  little  ones  of  her  own 
now,  for  scarlet  fever  had  robbed  her  of  her  only  two 
at  one  stroke,  but  her  great  sorrow  had  only  made  her 
sweet  nature  sweeter  and  more  unselfish  still,  and  she 
was  greatly  beloved  in  Cosy  Cove.  A  great  shadow 
gathered  on  her  face  when  she  entered  the  miserable 


22  "THE  BONNIE  JEAN." 

home  of  'the  Rintouls,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears 
at  sight  of  the  wee  white  face  pressed  close  to  the 
breast  of  the  unhappy  mother.  Jean  Rintoul  looked 
up  rather  defiantly  at  sight  of  Mrs.  Dunlop,  and 
clasped  her  child  more  closely  in  her  arms,  as  if  afraid 
it  was  to  be  taken  from  her. 

"Let  me  see  your  poor  little  baby,  Mrs.  Rintoul," 
said  Mrs.  Dunlop  in  the  gentlest  tones  of  her  gentle 
voice.  "I  have  had  some  experience  of  sick  children, 
you  know,  and  I  may  be  able  to  do  something  for 
yours. ' ' 

"She  's  deid,"  said  Mrs.  Rintoul  briefly,  but  no 
longer  resisted  Mrs.  Dunlop's  gentle  entreaty.  So 
the  schoolmaster's  wife  took  the  poor  little  thing  in 
her  kind  arms  and  sat  down  at  the  fire  with  her.  But 
though  life  was  not  yet  quite  gone,  her  experienced 
eye  told  her  it  was  just  flickering  in  the  socket.  So 
she  did  not  disturb  the  child,  and  in  a  little  while  the 
white  lids  fluttered  and  a  gentle  sigh  passed  the  lips. 
So,  quietly  and  painlessly,  did  wee  Katie  pass  from 
the  earth,  which  had  not  been  a  very  happy  home  for 
her,  into  the  Kingdom  where  Jesus  takes  the  lambs 
in  His  arms. 

"Your  baby  is  safe  with  mine  in  the  Kingdom, 
Mrs.  Rintoul,"  said  Mary  Dunlop,  through  dropping 
tears.  "I  know  what  you  feel  about  it,  but  some  day 
you  will  think  with  me  that  it  is  far  better,  and  I  have 
two  in  Heaven." 

She  gently  laid  the  little  one  on  the  bed,  and  then 
her  kind  hand  fell  on  the  drooping  shoulder  of  the 
bereaved  mother.  She  would  have  given  much  to 
have  seen  tears  in  those  wearied  eyes,  but  they  were 


«  THE  BONNIE   JEAN."  23 

dry  and  hard-looking,  and  her  face  wore  an  expres- 
sion of  intense  bitterness. 

"Have  you  a  little  white  dress  for  your  baby,  Mrs. 
Rintoul?"  asked  Mary  Dunlop.  "If  not,  I  can  give 
you  one." 

"I  hae  naething,"  said  Jean  Rintoul  quietly,  yet 
with  dogged  bitterness;  "ye  see  a'  I  hae  about  ye. 
Whaur  could  I  hae  siller  tae  buy  white  frocks  or  ony 
ither  kind?" 

Then  Mary  Dunlop  slipped  away  back  to  the 
schoolhouse,  and  opened  the  drawer  in  her  own  bed- 
room where  lay  her  best  treasures,  the  little  garments 
her  babies  had  worn  in  life.  She  took  from  among 
them  a  robe  as  white  as  snow,  made  dainty  and  sweet 
with  the  trimmings  her  own  hands  had  wrought  before 
the  babies  came ;  also  some  other  little  needful  things, 
and  sped  back  with  them  to  the  cottage  by  the  shore. 
She  found  it  exactly  as  she  had  left  it,  so  she  got  a 
basin  with  water  in  it,  sponged  wee  Katie's  face  and 
hands,  and  then  proceeded  to  robe  her  in  the  pretty 
white  gown — the  bereaved  mother  looking  on  with 
apparent  indifference,  but  real  interest,  all  the  time. 
Oh,  how  sweet  and  fair  did  wee  Katie  look,  robed  for 
her  last  sleep !  for  kind  death  had  smoothed  away  all 
the  lines  of  weariness  and  pain,  and  it  was  as  sweet  a 
baby  face  as  mother's  eyes  ever  rested  on. 

"See  how  pretty  she  is!"  whispered  Mrs.  Dunlop. 
"You  have  only  to  look  at  her  face  to  know  it  is  bet- 
ter with  her  where  she  has  gone.  You  know  there  is 
no  pain  there." 

Then  with  rare  delicacy  she  stole  away  again  and 
left  the  mother  alone  with  her  child. 


24  "THE  BONNIE   JEAN." 

All  the  time  Mrs.  Dunlop  had  been  in  the  house 
wee  Davie  had  sat  on  his  stool  looking  with  wonder- 
ing and  reverent  eyes  at  all  she  did  for  his  little  sister. 
But  after  she  went  away,  and  his  mother  laid  herself 
down  on  the  bed  beside  Katie  as  if  in  utter  weariness, 
he  stole  out  and  away  down  to  see  whether  "The  Bon- 
nie Jean"  had  come  in.  It  was  dark  now,  but  the 
moon  was  breaking  through  a  rift  in  the  cloudy  sky, 
and  there  was  a  wondrous  light  of  beauty  shimmering 
on  the  sea.  Ay,  there  was  "The  Bonnie  Jean"  sure 
enough,  drifting  serenely  at  her  anchorage,  and 
Davie's  heart  leaped  within  him,  for  he  just  felt  as  if 
she  was  his  own  boat,  for  was  she  not  promised  to  him 
by  his  grandfather,  who  never  broke  his  word? 

He  ran  nimbly  along  the  pier,  expecting  to  find 
his  grandfather  and  his  father  at  least  on  board,  but 
there  was  no  light  to  be  seen,  and  the  deck  was  clean 
swept  and  everything  apparently  left  tidy  for  the 
night.  Where  then  had  his  father  gone?  Into  the 
"Sailor's  Friend"  likely,  or  perhaps  away  up  to  the 
"Black  Bull"  at  Dangermouth.  Davie  wanted  very 
much  to  get  on  board  "The  Bonnie  Jean,"  but  an- 
other boat,  the  "Heather  Bell,"  belonging  to  Jock 
Graham's  father,  lay  alongside  nearer  the  quay  side; 
also,  there  was  a  space  between  the  boats  which  Davie 
doubted  would  be  too  wide  for  him  to  jump.  How- 
ever, he  scrambled  down  the  narrow  iron  ladder  a  bit, 
grasped  the  stout  rope  which  fastened  the  "Heather 
Bell,"  and  swung  himself  aboard.  Then  with  cool 
daring  he  climbed  on  her  side,  and  with  a  spring 
cleared  the  space  of  water  between  the  boats  and 
landed  on  the  deck  of  "The  Jean."  How  delightful 


"THE  BONNIE   JEAN."  25 

it  was  to  find  himself  alone  on  the  deck  of  his  own 
boat,  and  to  fancy  he  was  its  master,  taking  care  of  it 
while  his  men  had  gone  home  for  the  night.  He  crept 
all  over  the  boat,  into  the  little  cabin,  peered  into  the 
berths,  but  it  was  too  dark  to  see  much  there;  so 
finally  he  came  up  again  and  coiled  himself  up  on  a 
pile  of  nets,  with  his  face  turned  out  to  sea,  and  be- 
gan to  fancy  himself  away  on  the  big  ocean,  monarch 
of  all  he  surveyed.  The  growing  lateness  of  the  hour, 
the  weird  light  of  the  moon,  the  murmur  of  the  restless 
sea,  the  gentle  motion  of  the  boat  swayed  by  the 
receding  tide,  all  helped  the  fancy,  and  for  a  while 
Davie  was  in  a  wonderful  dreamland  of  his  own.  He 
loved  the  sea  with  a  strange,  passionate  love,  and 
even  its  wildest  tumults  could  not  make  him  afraid. 
He  came  to  himself  at  length  and  started  up,  for  it 
was  time  he  was  away  home.  But  what  was  his  aston- 
ishment to  find  that  the  boat  had  drifted  with  the  re- 
ceding tide  to  the  utmost  limit  of  its  chain,  and  that 
now  the  space  of  water  between  it  and  the  "Heather 
Bell"  was  too  wide  to  admit  of  his  jumping  it.  So 
what  could  he  do  but  content  himself  on  board  till 
morning,  or  until  the  tide  flowed  again  and  brought 
him  alongside  the  "Heather  Bell."  It  was  delightful 
to  think  of  spending  a  night  at  sea,  and  except  for  the 
thought  of  his  mother's  anxiety  about  him,  he  would 
have  been  as  happy  as  a  king.  Looking  across  at 
Cosy  Cove  he  saw  that  the  lights  in  the  houses  were 
nearly  all  out,  so  that  he  must  have  sat  dreaming  a 
long  time.  There  was  scarcely  a  chance  of  anyone 
coming  along  the  pier  that  night,  so  there  was  nothing 
for  him  but  to  find  a  bed  below.  In  great  glee  at  his 


26  "THE  BONNIE   JEAN." 

new  experience,  Davie  crept  down  and  into  one  of  the 
berths,  and  in  a  little  while  was  sound  asleep — lulled 
to  rest  by  the  music  of  the  waves. 

About  midnight,  when  the  moon  was  at  its  full,  a 
figure  came  rather  unsteadily  along  the  pier.  It  made 
straight  for  the  moorings  of  "The  Bonnie  Jean,"  and, 
after  staying  a  little  while  there,  walked  unsteadily 
back  to  the  village.  And  Davie  slept  unconsciously 
in  his  cosy  berth,  and  "The  Bonnie  Jean"  drifted, 
drifted  with  the  receding  tide. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ABOUT  midnight  Mrs.  Rintoul,  who  had  fallen  into  a 
heavy  slumber  by  the  side  of  her  dead  baby,  was 
awakened  by  her  husband's  noisy  entrance  into  the 
house.  She  raised  herself  up,  and  seeing,  even  in 
the  dim  light,  that  he  was  very  drunk,  she  gently 
drew  the  cover  over  Katie's  face,  and  sat  up  herself 
on  the  front  of  the  bed  as  if  to  protect  her. 

"Whaur  hae  ye  been  sae  late,  Dave?  it 's  efter 
twal,"  she  said.  "An'  faither  gaed  by  jist  at  the 
darkenin'." 

David  Rintoul  replied  only  by  an  oath,  and  bade 
her  get  up  and  mend  the  fire,  and  make  things  com- 
fortable for  a  man  when  he  came  home  to  his  own 
house.  She  meekly  obeyed,  and  having  stirred  up  the 
fire,  set  on  the  kettle,  and  went  to  see  what  the  cup- 
board contained.  Her  larder  was  never  very  full  at 
any  time,  but  it  was  even  more  than  unusually  bare 
to-night;  there  was  only  what  country  folks  call  the 
"heel"  of  a  loaf  on  the  bread-plate,  and  there  was  no 
butter  nor  cheese,  nor  even  a  despised  herring  to  be 
seen. 

"Are  ye  hungry,  Dave?  I  've  naething  in  the 
hoose, "  she  said  quietly. 

"No;  I  kent  brawly  what  tae  expeck,  so  I  supper  !t 
mysel'  at  Dan'mooth, "  was  his  surly  answer.  "Ye 

27 


28  "THE  BONNIE   JEAN." 

couldna  weel  hae  less  than  naething;  but  I  doot  it  '11 
be  waur  wi'  ye  afore  it  be  better;  I  've  gotten  the  seek 
frae  yer  faither. " 

"What  for,  Dave?  What  by-ordinar'  thing  hae  ye 
been  daein'?" 

"I  met  twa  cronies  when  we  were  lyin'  in  Kinsale, 
an'  we  got  croose  thegither,  that  was  a',''  he  said. 
"He  's  an  unco  guid  man,  yer  faither,  ower  guid  for 
this  warld,  I  telt  him.  He  thinks  there  never  was  a 
boat  siccan's  'The  Jean,'  but  I 'se  warrand  he'll 
think  mair  o'  her  neist  time  he  sees  her." 

Mrs.  Rintoul  did  not  take  particular  note  of  the 
latter  part  of  her  husband's  speech;  her  mind  was 
occupied  by  the  thought  of  his  dismissal,  for  what 
would  become  of  them  now?  She  knew  very  well 
that  no  other  man  would  employ  Dave;  many  had 
wondered  at  James  Forsyth  putting  up  with  him  so 
long. 

David  Rintoul  lit  his  pipe — for  whatever  the  priva- 
tions his  wife  and  children  had  to  endure  he  never 
lacked  a  "fill"  for  his  pipe — and  sat  puffing  away 
until  he  grew  drowsy  and  closed  his  eyes.  His  wife 
sat  and  watched  him  till  he  fell  asleep,  and  then  lay 
down  herself  again,  for  her  waking  hours  were  not  so 
pleasant  that  she  should  seek  to  prolong  them.  He 
waked  up  in  the  early  morning,  and  stumbled  into 
the  ben-end,  where  he  threw  himself  on  the  old  sofa 
and  fell  asleep  again.  When  he  awoke  the  second 
time  the  bairns  were  up,  for  he  heard  their  din  in  the 
kitchen.  Pulling  out  his  watch,  he  saw  that  it  was 
twenty  minutes  to  seven,  early  enough  yet,  he 
thought,  and  was  about  to  lie  down  again  when  a  sud- 


"  THE  BONNIE   JEAN."  29 

den  idea  struck  him,  and  he  pulled  aside  the  shutter 
and  looked  out.  The  boats  iilled  the  tiny  harbour, 
and  some  were  moored  at  thj  outside  close  to  the 
shelter  of  a  natural  pier  forried  by  the  rocks.  He 
recognised  one  and  all  in  the  :  till  morning  light,  and 
a  strange  expression  crossed  his  face  when  he  saw  that 
"The  Bonnie  Jean"  was  not  at  her  anchorage.  That 
banished  sleep,  so  he  strode  into  the  kitchen. 

The  children  were  at  their  breakfast  of  porridge 
and  treacle — only  Davie  was  absent.  His  eyes  fell 
then  upon  the  bed,  and  when  he  saw  the  counterpane 
pulled  right  over  the  baby's  face  he  spoke  up  gruffly 
enough  to  his  wife — 

"Ye '11  choke  the  bairn,  Jean";  but  before  he 
could  say  any  more  she  turned  to  him  and  held  up  a 
warning  finger. 

"Come  here,  Dave,"  she  said,  and  he  mechanic- 
ally obeyed  and  walked  over  to  the  bed.  Then  she 
gently  put  back  the  covering  from  the  child,  and  he 
saw  her  face,  not  as  he  had  been  wont  to  see  it  in  life, 
fretful  and  pain-livid,  and  pitiful  to  look  upon,  but 
pure  and  sweet  and  rounded,  for  Death  had  been 
kinder  to  Katie  than  her  father  had  ever  been.  A 
shiver  ran  through  the  strong  man's  frame,  and  he 
sank  upon  the  bed. 

"Is  she  deid,  Jean?  When  was  't?"  he  asked  un- 
steadily. 

"Yestreen,"  replied  the  mother  very  softly;  for 
somehow  the  light  of  heaven  which  lay  on  Katie's  face 
had  smoothed  away  the  bitterness  out  of  the  mother's 
heart,  and  she  could  even  say  with  Mary  Dunlop  that 
it  was  "far  better." 


jo  "THE  BONNIE   JEAN." 

She  moved  away  over  to  the  window,  and  looked 
out  for  a  minute  in  silence. 

44  4The  Jean'  's  awa  oot  again  this  morning,  Davie. 
They  're  surely  in  a  hurry.  I  think  Davie  maun  be 
awa  wi'  his  grandfaither,  for  he  hasna  been  in  a' 
nicht.  He  whiles  gangs  up  and  bides,  ye  ken;  and 
he  's  aye  speakin'  aboot  gaun  aff  in  'The  Jean.'  But, 
Guid  guide  us!  there  's  faither  fleein'  doon  like  a  man 
possessed.  What  does  it  mean?" 

"Has  Davie  no  been  in  a'  nicht,  Jean?"  asked 
David  Rintoul  in  a  low,  strange  voice. 

44No.  Awa  alang  to  the  harbour,  man,  and  see 
what's  up.  Mercy  me!  the  hale  toon's  turnin' oot 
surely!" 

But  David  Rintoul  would  not  move,  so  Jean  her- 
self ran  out  and  along  the  pier,  where  there  was  quite 
a  crowd  gathered. 

"What  is 't?— what's  up?  Whaur 's  'The  Jean,' 
faither?"  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"She  's  brak  frae  her  moorin's,  Jean  Rintoul,  or 
somebody  's  let  her  aff,  and  she  's  awa  guid  kens 
whaur,"  was  the  answer  from  half-a-dozen  mouths. 

Then  quite  suddenly  a  great  fear  gathered  about 
the  heart  of  Jean  Rintoul,  and  she  made  her  way  to 
her  father's  side. 

"Was  Davie  up  wi'  you  last  nicht,  faither?" 

"Davie?  No.  I  hinna  seen  him  sin'  afore  we 
gaed  aff,"  he  answered.  "Is  he  no  at  hame?" 

"No.  He  hasna  been  in  ony  o'  your  hooses,  has 
he?"  she  asked,  staring  helplessly  at  the  women  round 
her.  They  all  shook  their  heads. 

Then  a  light  seemed  to  dawn  on  James  Forsyth. 


"THE  BONNIE   JEAN."  31 

"Wad  the  laddie  gang  aff  in  the  boat  hissel'?"  he 
asked.  "He  couldna  dae  't. " 

"Not  him;  he  hadna  strength  to  lowse  the  chain," 
was  the  universal  answer. 

"I  saw  somebody  aboard  'The  Jean'  last  nicht  as  I 
was  gaun  tae  my  bed,"  said  an  old  woman  whose 
house  stood  nearest  the  harbour.  "It  was  like  a  lad- 
die gaun  up  and  doon,  but  I  thocht  the  munelicht 
was  playin"  tricks  wi'  me,  and  I  thocht  nae  mair 
o't." 

A  babel  of  eager  discussion  followed,  but  nobody 
seemed  inclined  to  accept  the  idea  that  wee  Davie 
could  have  gone  off  in  the  boat  himself.  The  skipper 
was  a  shrewd  old  man,  and  there  was  a  suspicion  in 
his  head  which  he  did  not  care  to  make  public. 

"Is  yer  man  in,  Jean?"  he  asked. 

"Ay,  he  's  been  in  a'  nicht,"  she  answered  faintly. 

"Awa  an'  bid  him  come  alang  an'  let 's  hear  his 
opinion  on  this  queer  affair.  An'  keep  up  yer  heart 
aboot  Davie.  Supposin'  he  is  aff  in  'The  Jean'  he  '11 
be  safe  eneuch,  an'  I  'se  warrand  he  's  nae  farther 
than  roun'  Cromar's  Heid,"  he  said  assuringly;  but 
others  shook  their  heads,  for  there  had  been  a  stiff 
breeze  blowing  all  night  which  made  them  doubt 
whether  the  runaway  boat  would  be  found  so  near  at 
home.  Jean  slowly  turned  about  and  went  away  back 
to  the  house.  Had  she  lost  two  children,  she  won- 
dered? Had  her  cup  of  misery  not  been  full  enough 
that  her  first-born  and  best-beloved  should  be  taken 
too? 

"Dave,"  she  gasped,  directly  she  was  within  the 
door,  "  'The  Jean'  's  awa  oot  tae  the  open  sea,  an* 


32  "THE  BONNIE   JEAN," 

oor  Davie  's  aboard.  Kirsten  Wilson  saw  him  last 
nicht,  so  we  've  lost  twa  instead  o'  ane. " 

A  strange  cry  rose  from  the  lips  of  David  Rintoul, 
and  he  rose  shaking  from  head  to  foot.  In  the  broad 
light  of  day  the  heinousness  of  his  sin  was  laid  bare 
before  him,  and  his  punishment  was  not  lacking. 

"Jean!  Jean!  it  was  me  that  did  it.  I  let  her  aff 
frae  her  moorin's  to  be  revenged  on  the  skipper  for 
payin'  me  aff.  I  wadna  hae  dune  't  had  I  been  sober. 
Eh,  woman,  dinna  look  at  me  like  that;  it's  bad 
eneuch  withoot  that." 

A  loud  moan  escaped  the  white  lips  of  Jean  Rin- 
toul. 

"O  Dave!  Dave!"  she  cried,  and  tottering  toward 
the  bed  she  fell  upon  it,  and  for  a  time  her  sorrows 
were  forgotten  in  the  mercifulness  of  unconsciousness. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  tugs  were  lying  outside  the  harbour  at  Danger- 
mouth,  waiting  to  tow  the  fleet  out  when  daylight 
came.  The  tide  was  full  at  six  o'clock,  and  by  seven 
the  harbour  presented  a  very  lively  appearance. 
Dangermouth  is  a  much  larger  place  than  Cosy  Cove, 
and  it  is  quite  a  sight  to  see  the  fleet  going  out  or 
coming  in.  About  eight  o'clock  the  boats,  about 
forty  in  all,  sailed  away  out  of  the  bay,  being  towed 
by  the  tugs  out  to  the  open  sea.  It  was  a  fine  clear 
morning,  and  the  craft  on  the  sea  could  be  seen  for 
many  miles  around.  There  were  big  steamers  on 
their  way  from  London  to  Leith,  merchantmen  from 
every  quarter  of  the  globe,  and  fishing  vessels  of 
every  size  and  style.  The  Dangermouth  fleet  very 
soon  parted  company,  for  some  were  bound  for  the 
Irish  coast,  some  for  the  Isle  of  Man,  and  others  for 
the  English  shores.  The  latter,  sailing  eastward,  spied 
one  solitary  boat  apparently  drifting  on  the  breast  of 
the  sea,  and,  as  far  as  they  could  see  with  the  aid  of  a 
glass,  there  seemed  to  be  nobody  aboard  her. 

"She  looks  uncommon  like  a  Cosy  Cove  boat," 
said  one  of  the  men.  "What  can  be  the  meaning 
o't?" 

Curious  to  penetrate  the  mystery,  one  of  the  tugs 
steamed  directly  for  her,  and  in  a  short  time  they  saw 

33 


34  "THE  BONNIE  JEAN." 

plainly  enough  that  she  was  a  Cosy  Cove  boat,  and 
that  her  only  occupant  was  a  little  boy  sitting  for- 
lornly on  a  pile  of  nets.  Coming  nearer  still  they 
recognised  the  boat  and  its  occupant  too,  for  "The 
Bonnie  Jean"  was  well  enough  known  to  all  the  tug- 
masters.  So  was  wee  Davie  Rintoul,  for  he  was  never 
away  from  the  harbour  mouth  when  he  was  out  of 
school. 

Very  soon  the  tug  was  alongside,  and  the  captain 
hailed  Davie  in  rather  an  amused  voice. 

"Hulloa,  skipper,  are  ye  on  yer  ain  hook  noo? 
Hoo  mony  barrels  hae  ye  gotten,  eh?" 

Davie  laughed  back,  and  tossed  his  cap  up  in  the 
air.  Much  as  he  had  enjoyed  his  trip,  he  was  not 
sorry  to  behold  the  means  whereby  he  could  get  safely 
back  to  Cosy  Cove.  In  a  very  short  time  the  tug  had 
"The  Bonnie  Jean"  in  tow,  and  Davie  was  trans- 
ferred to  the  deck  of  the  steamer,  where  he  explained 
as  he  best  could  how  he  had  come  to  make  a  voyage 
on  his  own  account.  But  the  tug  sailors  could  not 
very  well  understand  the  matter,  and  were  not  in- 
clined to  believe  that  "The  Jean"  had  drifted  from 
her  moorings.  However,  it  might  be  explained  when 
they  got  back  to  Cosy  Cove.  Directly  the  tug  ap- 
peared round  Cromar's  Head,  with  "The  Jean"  sail- 
ing beautifully  behind  her,  she  was  caught  sight  of  in 
Cosy  Cove ;  and  so  swiftly  did  the  news  spread  that 
when  they  reached  the  harbour  mouth  the  pier  was 
thronged  with  human  beings,  foremost  among  whom 
were  James  Forsyth  and  David  Rintoul.  It  was  now 
about  ten  o'clock  in  the  forenoon,  and  a  search  party 
had  just  returned  from  the  opposite  direction,  while 


"THE  BONNIE   JEAN,"  35 

another  lot  had  set  off  along  the  brae  heads  to  Danger- 
mouth.  The  latter  had  of  course  seen  the  tug  and 
her  tow,  but  had  not  yet  returned  to  Cosy  Cove.  A 
great  cheer  rent  the  air  when  the  boat  came  in,  and  in 
a  minute,  greatly  to  Davie's  astonishment,  he  felt 
himself  clasped  close  in  his  father's  arms,  where  he 
had  never  been  since  his  childish  days,  before  he  had 
learned  to  be  only  afraid  of  his  father.  Then  David 
Rintoul  strode  away  through  the  crowd,  who  fell 
apart  to  let  him  pass,  and  made  straight  for  his  own 
dwelling.  The  news  that  wee  Davie  was  safe  had  of 
course  already  been  conveyed  to  the  stricken  mother, 
and  she  was  waiting  for  them  just  within  the  door. 

"Here's  Davie,  Jean;  he's  safe,"  her  husband 
said;  and  then  Davie  sprang  into  his  mother's  arms. 

"Dinna  greet,  mither,  I  'm  a'  richt;  I  jist  got  a  fine 
sail  by  mysel',"  said  Davie,  crying  and  laughing  in 
one  breath.  "I  didna  mean  tae  gang  awa,  for  I  kent 
ye  wad  wunner  whaur  I  was." 

"I  ken,  I  ken,  my  bairn,  ye  was  aye  a  guid  laddie," 
sobbed  Jean  Rintoul.  "Thank  the  Lord,  ye  are 
safe!" 

David  lingered  about  the  house  a  little,  and  then 
made  off  again  down  to  the  harbour.  He  was  as  rest- 
less as  the  waves  tossing  under  the  westerly  breeze, 
and  some  magnet  drew  him  continually  toward  the 
sea.  When  the  husband  and  wife  were  left  alone  again 
there  was  a  long  silence — a  solemn  silence,  too,  for 
great  emotions  make  us  all  solemn. 

"Jean,"  said  David  Rintoul  then,  in  low  and  earn- 
est tones,  "will  ye  forgi'e  me — will  ye  let  byganes  be 
byganes — an'  I  '11  mak'  a  better  man  tae  ye  than  I 


36  "THE  BONNIE  JEAN." 

hae  ever  been  yet?  I  ken  what  a  puir  life  o  't  ye  hae 
haen  wi'  me,  lassie,  but  I  '11  try  an'  mend  frae  this 
day. ' ' 

Again  there  was  a  silence,  and  Jean  Rintoul  kept 
her  face  buried  on  her  arms  on  the  table,  sobbing 
still. 

"Jean,  speak  tae  me,  woman.  I  mean  what  I  say. 
Wull  ye  let  me  try  tae  mak'  ye  forget  the  past?  I  '11 
work  hard,  lassie  (an*  I  can  work  when  I  hae  a  wull), 
for  you  an'  the  bairns." 

Then  Jean  Rintoul  rose  and  laid  her  hand  softly 
on  her  husband's  arm.  The  eyes  looking  up  to  his 
rugged  face  were  dim  with  earnest  feeling,  also  her 
face  was  softened  into  something  of  the  beauty  of  long 
ago.  These  gentle  fingers  guided  him  unconsciously 
over  to  the  bed  where  the  baby  slept  its  last  sleep, 
like  the  petals  of  a  lily  folded  to  its  rest. 

"Ye  mean  what  ye  say,  Davie;  promise  me  it  again 
for  wee  Katie's  sake,"  whispered  Jean  Rintoul  with 
wistful  pathos. 

"Ay,  so  help  me,  God!  an'  I  '11  never  taste  drink 
again  while  I  live,  for  it 's  wrocht  a*  the  mischief.  No 
anither  drap  shall  cross  my  lips,  Jeanie,  I  promise  ye 
here  solemnly,  for  wee  Katie's  sake." 

Jean  Rintoul  moved  nearer  to  her  husband,  so  near 
that  her  dress  touched  him,  and  her  head  rested 
against  his  shoulder.  Then  he  put  his  arm  about  the 
poor  drooping  figure  and  drew  it  very  close  to  him. 
The  old  love  was  not  dead  yet,  and  there  was  a  new 
love  born  of  sorrow,  the  outcome  of  the  deepest  emo- 
tions of  the  heart  commingling  with  the  old,  and 
which  was  the  earnest  of  a  new,  sweet,  better  life, 


"THE  BONNIE   JEAN."  37 

which  would  make  the  father  and  mother  meet  for  the 
kingdom  whither  their  wee  Katie  had  gone. 

In  the  gloaming  David  Rintoul  walked  away  up  to 
the  two-storeyed  house  and  knocked  at  the  door.  It 
was  opened  by  the  sour-faced  aunt,  who  very  snap- 
pishly inquired  his  business,  and  very  gingerly  bade 
him  enter.  The  skipper  of  "The  Bonnie  Jean"  was 
smoking  his  pipe  over  the  cosy  kitchen  fire,  with 
Davie  on  a  stool  at  his  feet. 

"Rin  awa  hame,  Davie,  my  man,  yer  mither  wants 
ye,"  said  David  Rintoul;  and  Davie  flew  off  at  once; 
for  when  his  father  spoke  to  him  in  that  kind  and 
pleasant  tone  he  would  have  gone  to  earth's  utmost 
ends  to  do  his  bidding. 

"I  've  com'd  up,  skipper,  tae  tell  ye  that  it  was 
me  that  let  aff  the  boat  yestreen,"  began  David  Rin- 
toul then,  in  an  honest,  manly  fashion  which  consider- 
ably astonished  his  father-in-law. 

"I  jaloused  as  muckle,  Dave  Rintoul,"  was  his 
brief  and  inscrutable  reply. 

"I  ken  brawly  I  am  liable  tae  a  heavy  punishment, 
an'  I  believe  I  wad  like  better  tae  be  punished  than 
tae  be  let  aff,  I  sae  richly  deserve  it,"  continued 
David  Rintoul.  "But  if  ye  wull  let  me  aff,  an'  gi'e  's 
anither  chance  for  Jean's  sake  an'  for  the  bairns',  I  '11 
try  an'  make  up  tae  ye  for  't. " 

"That  needs  a  thocht  or  twa,  Dave  Rintoul,"  said 
the  old  man  laconically,  though  hardly  able  to  control 
his  surprise. 

"I  hae  made  up  my  mind,  skipper,  that  with  God's 
help  I  '11  never  taste  anither  drap  o'  drink,  an'  I 
mean  tae  try  to  mak'  up  tae  Jean  for  the  miserable 


38  "  THE  BONNIE   JEAN. " 

life  she  's  haen  wi'  me,"  said  David  Rintoul  with  yet 
greater  earnestness. 

"If  that  be  the  set  o't,  Dave,  gi'e 's  yerhand," 
said  the  old  man,  starting  up.  "I  wull  gi'e  ye  anither 
chance  for  the  sake  o'  that  game  wee  gallant  o*  yours 
if  for  naething  else.  God  gi'e  ye  strength  tae  stand, 
my  man,  for  oor  ain  strength  is  no  eneuch. " 

When  the  grim  aunt  entered  the  kitchen  by-and-by, 
she  was  greatly  amazed  and  perhaps  not  very  well 
pleased  to  see  how  cosy  and  friendly-like  her  brother 
and  wild  Dave  Rintoul  were  sitting  together;  and  from 
what  she  could  gather  from  their  talk  they  seemed 
to  be  discussing  some  new  arrangements  of  the  shares 
of  "The  Bonnie  Jean. "  So  from  that  night  there  was 
peace,  abiding  peace  between  the  two-storey  house  and 
the  cottage  by  the  sea. 


These  things  happened  some  years  ago.  "The 
Bonnie  Jean"  is  still  to  the  fore,  however,  as  able  for 
her  work  as  any  of  her  compeers.  But  the  old  skip- 
per has  retired  from  active  labours  now,  and  smokes 
his  pipe  of  peace  about  the  doors;  often  sauntering 
into  his  daughter's  comfortable  home,  just  for  a  look 
at  the  winsome  face  which  used  to  be  the  sunshine  at 
the  two-storey  house.  It  is  winsome  now;  for  happi- 
ness is  a  great  smoother  away  of  the  lines  of  age  and 
care ;  and  Jean  Rintoul  is  the  happiest  woman  in  Cosy 
Cove.  So  she  says  herself,  and  she  should  know  best. 
Davie  Rintoul  nobly  kept  his  vow.  The  inner  depths 
of  the  man's  nature,  the  good  which  lies  even  in  the 
hardest  and  most  wayward  heart,  had  been  truly 


"THE  BONNIE   JEAN."  39 

touched,  and  had  brought  forth  their  good  fruits.  Wee 
Davie,  a  big  strapping  fellow,  though  he  is  "wee 
Davie"  still  to  his  mother  and  his  grandfather,  sails 
with  his  father  in  "The  Bonnie  Jean,"  and  they  share 
the  profits  alike.  But  there  is  a  splendid  new  boat 
building  at  Dangermouth  to  the  order  of  Davie  Rin- 
toul  the  younger,  and  though  the  name  has  not  been 
quite  decided  on,  it  is  likely  to  be  "The  Wee  Katie;" 
for  the  little  child  whose  life  on  earth  was  not  so  bright 
as  it  should  have  been,  but  whose  influence  made  so 
much  difference  to  those  among  whom  she  sojourned 
for  a  little  while,  is  not  and  will  never  be  forgotten. 
There  are  two  pledge-cards  hanging  in  gold  frames 
above  the  mantel  in  Mrs.  Rintoul's  pretty  and  hand- 
somely furnished  parlour.  Both  bear  the  name 
"David  Rintoul,"  and  Mr.  Dunlop  finds  father  and 
son  able  and  hearty  helpers  in  his  temperance  work. 
So  blessed  has  that  quiet  but  earnest  work  been,  that 
I  hear  from  my  friend,  Mary  Dunlop,  that  the  doors 
of  "The  Sailors'  Friend"  are  likely  to  be  permanently 
closed,  because  the  trade  has  utterly  gone  down  in 
Cosy  Cove. 


A     000126432     4 


